“‘I am, sir.’

“’Unfortunately, I am not.  Will you kindly excuse me, say ten minutes?’

“‘Certainly, sir, with pleasure.’

“‘There are ladies present,’ he observed.  ‘Let us retire.’

“On my consenting, he turned to the offended dame, and in spite of her protests and appeals to drop matters, we left the ballroom, glaring daggers at each other.  Once outside, he slapped me on the back, and said, ’Say, we’ll just have time to run up to my office, where I have some choice old copper-distilled, sent me by a very dear friend in Kentucky.’

“The goods were all he claimed for them, and on our return he asked me as a personal favor to apologize to the lady, admitting that he was none too solid with her himself.  My doing so, he argued, would fortify him with her and wipe out rivals.  The doctor was a rattling good fellow, and I’d even taken off my new shirt for him, if he’d said the word.  When I made the apology, I did it on the grounds that I could not afford to have any difference, especially with a gentleman who would willingly risk his life for a lady who claimed his protection.

“No, if you never heard of voting the bonds you certainly haven’t kept very close tab on affairs in this Strip.  Two or three men whom I know refused to go in and vote.  They ain’t working in this country now.  It took some of the boys ten days to go and come, but there wasn’t a word said.  Wages went on just the same.  You ain’t asleep, are you, Don Guillermo?”

“Oh, no,” said Edwards, with a yawn, “I feel just like the nigger did when he eat his fill of possum, corn bread, and new molasses:  pushed the platter away and said, ’Go way, ‘lasses, you done los’ yo’ sweetness.’”

Bradshaw made several attempts to go, but each time some thought would enter his mind and he would return with questions about former acquaintances.  Finally he inquired, “What ever became of that little fellow who was sick about your camp?”

Edwards meditated until Mouse said, “He’s thinking about little St. John, the fiddler.”

“Oh, yes, Patsy St. John, the little glass-blower,” said Edwards, as he sat up on a roll of bedding.  “He’s dead long ago.  Died at our camp.  I did something for him that I’ve often wondered who would do the same for me—­I closed his eyes when he died.  You know he came to us with the mark on his brow.  There was no escape; he had consumption.  He wanted to live, and struggled hard to avoid going.  Until three days before his death he was hopeful; always would tell us how much better he was getting, and every one could see that he was gradually going.  We always gave him gentle horses to ride, and he would go with us on trips that we were afraid would be his last.  There wasn’t a man on the range who ever said ‘No’ to him.  He was one of those little men you can’t help but like; small physically, but with a heart as big as an ox’s.  He lived about three years on the range, was welcome wherever he went, and never made an enemy or lost a friend.  He couldn’t; it wasn’t in him.  I don’t remember now how he came to the range, but think he was advised by doctors to lead an outdoor life for a change.